


Castle in the Clouds

by JoMarch, RyoSen



Series: A Winning Strategy [7]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoMarch/pseuds/JoMarch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyoSen/pseuds/RyoSen





	1. Chapter 1

I hate alarm clocks.

They just ruin your entire morning, you know? You're having this pleasant dream, you're slowly moving from sleeping to waking, and then there's this blaring noise that absolutely ruins everything.

Take now, for instance. I would have sworn this dream was real. I'm in Josh's bed, in Josh's arms. There's a surprising lack of plot to this particular dream. It's just Joshua holding me. I swear I can still feel his arms around me and his body pressed up against mine, and I can even feel his breath against my neck -- Josh breathing nice and steady. Call me maudlin; but even six months after the shooting, I am tremendously comforted by watching Josh breathe or listening to his heart beating. So I resent the hell out of the damn alarm clock insisting that I return to the real world.

I reach over to turn off the stupid alarm clock and nearly fall out of bed. It takes me a second to realize that moving left toward my nightstand isn't going to work. I need to move right to get to the nightstand here.

In Josh's bedroom.

How did this happen?

I shut the alarm clock off finally, noticing with some annoyance that my husband has managed to sleep through three minutes of very loud, very atonal beeping.

And I'm still disoriented by the fact that I'm waking up here. I know I was planning to go back to my place. What the hell happened, and how can I blame Josh?

"Josh," I whisper.

No answer. The man is a very sound sleeper these days. You have no idea how happy this makes me. I have to smile; I mean, obviously I was here all night, so I know he didn't have any nightmares.

"Josh." This time I raise my voice. Just a little.

"What the--" Honestly, you'd think I was shouting the house down from his reaction.

"It's morning, Josh."

"It is?"

"Yes. It's 6:37 to be precise. You just slept through the alarm."

"Don't take this the wrong way, Donnatella, but what are you doing here?"

"I guess I overslept. You're entirely to blame, of course."

Ah, there it is: the first smirk of the morning.

"I am, huh?"

I ignore his pitiful display of macho posturing. What is it with this man that he thinks your being tired after sex is proof of his manhood? Instead, I explain the situation logically.

"Of course it is. I was going to rest for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, Josh. I told you. I said, 'If I fall asleep, Joshua, you have to wake me up in twenty minutes.' Well, obviously you didn't wake me up. Obviously, you fell asleep too. So here I am."

"Yes, you are." He pulls me so that I'm half on top of him, and we are going to be extremely late for work if I don't put a stop to this quickly.

"You have senior staff in eighty-five minutes. Give or take."

"I'll be late. I'll tell Leo it's my fault for giving you the morning off."

"Seriously? You're giving me the morning off?"

"Only if we're excessively late."

"Oh, I see. So basically you're lying to get me to sleep with you." I move to the other side of the bed. "Men. You all have no compunction about lying to get what you want, do you?"

"No. Though in defense of my gender, I should point out that I'm a politician, so the whole lying thing is a professionally acquired skill."

I give up on the pretending-to-be-mad thing, which isn't going to work and is just wasting precious time. This is called expediency; as a politician's wife, I know all about it. As for politicians' assistants, we practically invented the concept of expediency. So as you can guess, I'm quite good at it.

The expedient course of action, in this situation, is to immediately take advantage of the fact that we woke up together for once and worry about Josh's excuse for missing senior staff later. Besides, I'm in charge of his schedule and I say this shouldn't take more than twenty minutes.

Forty minutes later, we look at the clock again and realize that we are horribly behind schedule. Also, I'm exhausted again, but I'm thinking it's better not to point that out to the walking ego.

"Okay," I tell Josh, "you get in the shower; I'll get your clothes ready."

"What?" He looks all disappointed. Honestly, you wouldn't think the man had reached entirely new levels of satisfaction five minutes ago. "You're not getting in the shower with me?"

"Newsflash: Donnatella Moss-Lyman, your extremely seductive wife, has left the building. You are now dealing with Donna Moss, amazingly efficient assistant."

"This all sounds vaguely kinky." He's reaching for me again, so there's nothing to do except shove him out of bed.

"You're going to be late for work, Josh. People will get suspicious."

"Yes, but--"

"People named Leo will get suspicious."

"All right. But can I just say that you're more fun as a wife than as an assistant?"

"The fun portion of the morning has ended, Joshua. Accept that and move on."

"And I am taking the morning off," I shout as he heads for the shower.  
*  
Five minutes later, he's back. Does he thank me for having found a presentable suit for him to wear in the Closet of Doom? Does he notice how efficiently I've arranged the files he needs to take back to the office today? Does he comment on how remarkably well-groomed I look considering that I'm wearing clothes that ended up being thrown haphazardly around the living room last night? No, he's only interested in how I might be inconveniencing him.

"What do you mean you're taking the morning off?" he asks.

"It's the only logical explanation. You said so yourself. You tell Leo you were late because I had the morning off and didn't call to remind you about the meeting. This is for the good of the Moss-Lyman Defense."

"Lyman-Moss. And just why did you need the morning off?" He starts getting dressed. I take a seat on the edge of the bed and watch. It's a luxury, being together like this in the morning. I intend to savor the experience.

"I'm going Christmas shopping," I announce.

"You expect me to tell Leo I gave you the morning off to go Christmas shopping?"

"No," I say. "You can tell Leo I had a doctor's appointment or something. But as long as I have to take the morning off, I'm going Christmas shopping." He's almost finished dressing, and I hop off the bed to straighten his tie for him.

"Or you could just come with me," he says. "We could say your car's in the shop and we're late because I had to pick you up."

"And I just happened to be wearing the very same clothes I was wearing yesterday?"

"Like Leo would notice that."

"Margaret would notice. And Bonnie and Ginger. Possibly even Ainsley Hayes. CJ certainly would notice, which wouldn't matter except for the half hour she'd spend in your office telling us how reckless we're being."

"What can I say? I like living on the edge."

He's not the only member of this family who can smirk. "Living on the edge? Is that what you call it? 'Cause to me it's pretty much being so tired that you fell asleep when you specifically promised that you'd wake me up."

He puts his arms around my waist, and he smiles. You know, I think he's enjoying the whole waking-up-together thing almost as much as I am.

"I blame you," he says. "I was just watching you, and you lulled me right to sleep."

"So you're saying that looking at me puts you to sleep?" If Josh didn't have his arms around me, I'd put my hands on my hips and strike a pose to express my displeasure. Except, of course, that I keep going back to the part about being happy that he's sleeping well. Sleeping well in my arms. There's no point even pretending to be displeased about that.

We're wasting more time kissing. I should be a good assistant and shove him out the door. But I seem to have fallen back into wife mode again.

We have a complex relationship, Josh and I.

"Go to the office," I finally tell him.

"Without you?"

"I'll be there by noon."

"That long?"

"You'll be in meetings all morning. You won't even miss me."

"I might."

"You won't. It's the welfare bill. There'll be Republicans there. You'll get to harangue."

This time he makes it to the door. I think it's the promise of fighting with Republicans that does it.

"You know, Donna," he says on his way out, "when you stop by your apartment to change, you should pack some stuff. A change of clothes, you know? In case this ever happens again."

"It can't happen again," I warn. "We can't take chances like this."

"I'm just saying in case." He's made it all the way to the front steps. I'm still standing behind the open door, away from any prying eyes.

"It's almost Christmas. We can't slip up this close to the end."

Considering that he's a politician, Josh is terrible at keeping secrets. His face gives everything away. Like now, for instance. The mixture of guilt and disappointment I'm seeing from him is my first clue that he's decided to change the strategy without consulting me.

"About that--"

I know what he's trying to say. He's trying to say that he's changed his mind. He's trying to say that he's rethought his original idea of announcing our marriage on Christmas Eve.

And it was such a good morning. I'm determined not to hear this. I'm determined not to lose my morning of being Donnatella Moss-Lyman who wakes up in her husband's bed like an ordinary married person.

"You're going to be late," I tell him.

"Donna--"

"We can talk about it tonight," I say and shut the door in his face.

I wander around the living room for a few minutes, trying to think of a way to vent my frustration. I notice this incredibly stupid modern art piece that he doesn't even like. It's glass and it's garish and he just keeps it because it was a gift. Mandy Hampton gave it to him after the California primary. She kissed him right there in front of God and Leo and everybody. I wasn't even attracted to him then, but it was embarrassing to watch.

Cleaning up the mess I make takes another fifteen minutes, and I don't even feel that much better after I've thrown it against the wall.

After all, my Christmas has pretty much been ruined.  
***

I walk out into the bullpen, my shout of "Donnatella" dying on my lips when I see her vacant desk. Then I remember we woke up together, and I grin stupidly at her computer. When the memory of the disappointed look on her face as she ushered me out registers, I frown at the picture of her Republican relatives that she dutifully keeps on her desk.

I retreat to my office to bury my guilt in work, only to realize some vital piece of information that only Donna could locate is missing. And I start the cycle again.

If only Leo were here to witness my utter ineptitude, Donna and I would be able to put a wedding announcement in the Post tomorrow. I can't function without her; I'm really not sure how I made it through the thirty-four years before I met her.

And then the guilt makes a repeat engagement -- I can't keep my promise to make an honest woman of her on Christmas Eve.

So I plan.

I am going to take time off. Actual time off. As opposed to leaving-my-secret-wife-to-have-a-nervous-breakdown-on-the-highly-overrated-island-of-Nantucket time off.

Donnatella Moss-Lyman and I are going to have a second honeymoon. One, I might add, that I will be fully able to participate in, physically speaking. My rather impressive romantic abilities are no longer limited by recently-acquired gunshot wounds and surgical scars. And we're going to have candles, dammit!

Oh, and I need to buy presents. At least eight of them. I believe I'll need some help with that. I have absolutely no time that is unaccounted for -- and the person for whom I need to shop is the one who controls my schedule.

I abandon all the work I'm not doing anyway and bang on CJ's door.

"Yeah," she yells.

I walk in and smile at her. Guilelessly, of course. Not like I need a favor.

CJ frowns. "What do you want?"

"I need some help--"

"Josh, I've got no time today. Peterson started up with the racial profiling stuff."

"Again?"

CJ nods.

"I can't believe people voted for this idiot," I comment. "But more importantly, you owe me a favor."

CJ's eyes get really wide. "I do not! I saved your job. And Donna's!"

"Yeah, and then you started with your wonderings and got Leo so worried that he let a Republican -- a Republican! -- revise the interoffice dating policy!"

CJ stares balefully at me. "Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Doesn't look like it."

She heaves a sigh. "What do you need?"

"I need some time off this afternoon."

"To mouth off to the press?"

"No."

"Then why are we having this conversation?" she asks.

"Because Donna can't know I'm going shopping."

CJ gives me a wary look. "Are you shopping for her?"

"Yes."  
CJ immediately stands and slams both of her doors shut. "Okay." She leans against her desk and pins me with a determined look. "Name at least two of the items you are considering."

"What?" I shake my head, confused.

"You'll thank me later," CJ says. "And more importantly, Donna will thank me later."

"Hey, Ms. Equal Rights -- enough with the sexist stereotyping."

CJ raises an eyebrow at me. "This has nothing to do with your gender and everything to do with the hideous gift basket you gave me two years ago. And we won't even discuss the spackle incident."

"Hey," I protest. "I liked that gift basket!"

"Josh, it was full of cheese."

"And sausages," I answer defensively. "It was very good cheese."

CJ rolls her eyes. "My point is that I am not letting you loose on a mall until you name at least two things you're going to buy for Donna."

"Is this a test?" I ask snidely.

"Close enough."

"Am I going to be graded?"

"It's pass/fail," she answers dryly. "Start talking."

I struggle for a moment, then say, "A fiber optic Christmas tree."

CJ tilts her head curiously. "Explain your reasoning."

This feels uncomfortably like oral exams, but I do my best. "Donna hasn't been able to have a tree in years because of Candi's cats, so I--"

"Candi?"

"Her roommate. Ex-roommate."

"Please tell me her last name isn't--"

"It's Genessee."

"That's a relief," CJ remarks. "But the fiber optic tree? Sounds space aged."

"They're cool -- they light up and change colors so you don't have to fiddle with those damned string lights," I explain. "Plus, she's not home enough to keep a real tree alive, and this would be smaller and easier to store."

CJ looks impressed. "I definitely approve. Number two?"

"That vacuum-sealed coffeemaker from Starbucks," I grin, bouncing slightly in my excitement.

With an exasperated shake of her head, CJ comments, "You two should seek therapy immediately for this coffee fetish you've got going."

I am still smiling. "So you approve?"

"Yes. I deem you mall-worthy."

"So you'll make something up?" I ask, already halfway out the door.

"Hold on there, Molly," CJ shouts.

I stop and give her a look. "Molly?"

"Mall. Shopper. Molly. Oh, shut up -- I haven't had my coffee yet. What do you mean make something up?"

"For Donna," I clarify. "So she doesn't know I'm shopping."

"Josh, I--"

"You owe me," I insist. "Ainsley Hayes!"

CJ slumps into her chair. "Fine, but my present better kick ass."

"You're expecting a present?"  
***

I thought the morning couldn't get any worse. I was wrong.

The answering machine in my apartment has five -- count 'em, five -- messages from my sister Frances. Each one is more strident than the one before it.

Frances could teach Josh a few things about hostility.

After listening to the last one ("It's 1 a.m., Donna. Where the hell are you? I told Mom I was going to call you, and I don't know what she'll say when I tell her you weren't home at 1 a.m. on a Tuesday."), I decide to call her back. Every day of my life, I deal competently with senators and cabinet officers who want to talk to my boss and who aren't going to get through. Their threats don't make me blink. My older sister threatens to tell Mom I was having sex on a school night, and I'm on the phone right away. Nothing like those dysfunctional Moss family dynamics.

I no more than say hello, however, before my sister threatens to further ruin the holiday season. "Mom and I decided we're having Christmas here this year," she announces.

"Excuse me?"

"It's the only sensible thing to do. It's much easier for her and Dad to drive here than for Steve and me to pack up the kids and all their presents. Plus it costs a fortune to board the dogs at the kennel over the holidays. So you're coming here."

Frances' dogs' well-being get more consideration here than my plans?

"Why wasn't I asked for an opinion about this?"

"Don't be stupid. It's just a question of which airport you fly into. It doesn't matter to you."

"As a matter of fact, it does. Besides--"

"Besides what?"

Good question. What am I supposed to say? There's "Besides, I can't stand to be around Steve for an hour; you can't expect me to spend all my vacation with him." Or "Besides, I was thinking of bringing my husband along. Oops, sorry I forgot to mention I'm married."

"Besides, I'm not sure I can make it home at all," I say.

"Not be with your family at Christmas?" Frances asks. "Donna Moss, have you lost your mind?"

"Things are kind of busy here right now," I answer. "As you'd know if you ever paid attention to the news."

"Oh, please!" Frances replies. "You're a glorified secretary. It's not like the federal government will fall apart without you for one week."

"For your information, I am personal assistant to the deputy chief of staff. And again, if you'd been paying attention to the news--"

"Oh, God. Am I going to have to listen to another one of your monologues on the wonderful qualities of Josh Lyman? Do you have any idea how sick this entire family is of hearing about the magnificent Josh Lyman? You're turning into such a cliché."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have a crush on your boss. Honestly, Donna, you think you're so progressive." She snorts. Frances actually snorts. "My sister, the feminist. Who's all lovesick over her boss, for the love of god!"

"I do not have a crush on Josh." What? I deeply love the man; that is not a crush.

"You do. And you'd rather stay in Washington and moon over your precious Joshua than spend Christmas with your family."

"Frances, believe me. What I want to do is spend Christmas with my next of kin." And instead I just know I'm going to spend it with Frances, Steve and my parents.

Frances is six years older than I am. We've never been what you'd call close. She's everything I don't want to be -- the quintessential suburban Republican soccer mom. You want the truth? CJ Cregg is more like a sister to me than Francesca Caprice Moss Hudson has ever been. There are rare occasions, however, when Frances will turn into the sister I wish I had just for a second.

Now, for instance.

"What's wrong?" she suddenly asks.

"Nothing."

"You sound like you're crying. Donnatella Viridis Moss, what's happened?"

"Nothing's -- things have just been kind of hectic here. I'm tired, that's all."

"Is it him? Did something happen with him?"

"No. Nothing happened. And would you stop saying 'him' like that? He's a perfectly nice guy. Well, okay, 'nice' might be the wrong word to describe Josh, but he's a good man. You might actually like him."

"This is the guy who said those awful things to that woman on TV?"

"If you're referring to the whole Mary Marsh thing, that is ancient history. And she completely deserved it."

"Well, forgive me for not thinking he's some sort of knight in shining armor. I mean, I'm sorry the man got shot, of course, but that doesn't mean I have to like him."

"Could you at least withhold judgment until -- that is, unless -- you meet him?"

"Not if he keeps you from coming home at Christmas. You always come home for Christmas. You'll break Mom and Dad's hearts if you don't. They're still upset that you wouldn't come home this summer because your boss got shot."

"I know." I also know that, announcement or no announcement, I'll break Josh's heart if I leave. And don't even suggest that I let my family in on the secret. My mother couldn't keep this news to herself for five minutes.

"Well, then," Frances says, "call me back when you've made your reservations so I know when to pick you up at the airport."

She hangs up before I can repeat that I might not be coming.

I so want the holidays to be over.  
***

It's not like my mother expects me home for Chanukah.

I mean, I'm the White House deputy chief of staff. Kind of an important job, and the country doesn't stop running on holidays. And besides, Chanukah lasts more than a week. That's a lot of vacation time.

On the other hand, my mother is the only member of my family left. My father died three years ago; my sister, almost thirty-two. Her parents are both gone. And since we lost the majority of our extended family during the Holocaust, she doesn't even have aunts or sisters or long-lost cousins to fall back on.

There's just me.

And I am taking time off to be with my wife. Leaving my mother to pass the holidays alone.

I am a horrible son.

And now I have to call my mother and tell her I won't be home for Chanukah, but I'll do my best to make it sometime in January.

She answers on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Mom?"

"Joshua." She sounds pleased to hear from me. "You're working too hard."

"I am not," I protest.

"I can hear it in your voice," she says. "But you're not calling for that."

I pause for a moment. "I'm just calling to say hi."

"Don't lie to your mother." I can hear the smile in her voice.

"I'm not."

"Joshua, you are a horrible liar," she says, in that singsong tone she uses when she's amused. "I can always tell when you're lying. And besides, I know why you're calling."

She does?

"You do?"

"I already have plans, Joshua."

I am honestly confused. "Plans for what?"

"Chanukah," she explains patiently. "You can't make it up here. I understand. Rabbi Stein invited me to join him and his family."

I am a horrible, terrible, awful person.

"I'm sorry, Mom."

"Honey, you're a busy man. I bet you're not even taking a day off the entire time. You always did work too hard."

I can't lie to her. I sigh and admit, "I actually might take some time off."

There's a pause. "You're seeing someone," she says excitedly.

"No, I'm not," I protest. Again -- she's my wife. I'm not "seeing" her.

"Okay," she answers in that indulgent tone. "Can I make a suggestion?"

"No!"

"Honey, you have a tendency to screw these things up," she points out. "I want you and Do -- I mean, you and this person -- to make it work."

Did she just say...? "Mom, what did you--?"

"Oh, never mind me, Joshua. An old woman sees things; but if you want to pretend it's a secret, you go on ahead."

I swear my mother could talk circles around Donna!

"Mom--"

"Joshua, I won't say a thing. The press and all, I understand you keeping it a secret. But you'd better watch how you look at her."

"Mom! I don't know what you're talking about."

She chuckles. The woman actually chuckles at me! "Sure, Joshua," she soothes. "But you might want to warn her too. It's all in the eyes."

I pause, stymied. "Where are you getting this?"

Her tone is serious suddenly. "I was there, Joshua, while you were in surgery. I saw the way she looked at the doctors; I recognized it. I've given doctors that same look, the one that pleads for only good information about the man you love. I saw the look on her face when they said you were out of surgery. And I saw how you looked at her when you woke with her at your bedside. Your father gave me that look after every surgery." She stops talking, and I swear I can hear her sniffling. "I was there, Joshua," she repeats.

"Mom," I whisper. I am surprised to find I am near tears myself. "I wanted you to know--"

"Hush, my boy," she says. "You'll tell me in good time."

I nod, even though she's not there to see me. "I'll be up in January," I promise.

"I'll hold you to it, Joshua." The smile is back in her voice. "Bring her with you."  
***

Holiday shopping is supposed to put you in a pleasant frame of mind. Just look at the commercials: groups of women in sweaters with Christmas trees and Santas all over them bonding over the decorations for the house, the toys for the kids and the power tools for their husbands. These people obviously live in an alternate universe.

With my sister Frances.

In my universe, even on a weekday morning the stores are jammed, it's impossible to find a parking space and all the other holiday shoppers have this glazed look in their eyes. Not a whole lot of holiday cheer going on here.

I pity the salesperson who gets in my way today because I am buying presents for my damn family and getting it over with. I'm not doing the thoughtful, "what will be the perfect gift for Mom?" thing this year. I'm buying the first item I see in my price range and I'm moving on. It's amazing how much you can accomplish when you put your mind to it. Within ninety minutes, I have gifts for Mom, Dad, Frances, Steve, my niece and both nephews. The only thing left is a gift for Josh, and I planned that months ago. All I have to do now is pick it up.

I curse myself for my stupid idea all the way to the jewelers. This was going to be perfect. I was going to give it to him in his office on Christmas Eve just before we made The Announcement. It was going to be quite the moment. I was thinking of hanging mistletoe, sort of for old times' sake. Now I'm just going to be stuck with the credit card bill from hell for no reason.

Of course, then I get to the jewelers and it's ready and I nearly cry when I see it because it is perfect. 

It's a wedding ring for him. I had them copy the design of my wedding ring -- the one Josh's grandfather gave his grandmother -- as nearly as possible, and it turned out awfully well. It doesn't look too garish or girly or anything, so I know he'll actually wear it. Assuming we ever get to the point where he can actually, you know, wear it.

But looking at it right now just reminds me that it's going to be longer than I'd thought until he can even consider wearing it.

I hate the holidays.  
***

Donnatella is...

Words escape me. They really do.

I can't even begin to do her justice. Maybe Sam could. Or Toby. Of course, if they tried, I would have to take care of them like I did Irving Seymour Hackenbush.

Oh, shut up -- I know he's fictional. Still, I could kick his ass if need be. Just wanted to make myself clear.

But I was talking about Donnatella.

She's magnificent. Really. Even now, stalking around in my kitchen in search of junk food to alleviate her sour mood. Especially now.

One thing I learned early on is that Donna truly is gorgeous when she's at her most fiesty. Those eyes start flashing fire in all directions. Then her cheeks flush this adorable pink. And her mouth -- God, that mouth.  
A simple twitch of those amazing lips and I'm completely at her mercy. The slightest frown ties me in knots. And when she smiles...

I know, I know -- I sound like the cheesy hero in some Lifetime original movie. And, no, I do not secretly watch Lifetime; I'm speaking metaphorically here.

I can't even be coherent about her body. Seriously, I lapse into some strange meta-language when I try to describe that hollow just above her collarbone. Or the tiny birthmark on her ribcage, just below the swell of her breast. Oh, and who can forget that sensuous curve where her waist flares into her hip. The strength in her thighs, the delicate crease of her knees, those alabaster toes -- I am reduced to sentence fragments!

I am also reduced to staring at Donnatella's incredible ass as she leans down to see into the far reaches of the (empty) cupboard.

My train of thought derails abruptly when she slams the cupboard shut and turns to glare at me, hands planted firmly on hips. "Do you have something against food?"

I know what's bothering her and since I am, as always, to blame, I am determined to draw her out of her funk.   
"I'll go get something. What do you want?"

She has her irritated face on. "World peace. An end to strip mining. Equal pay for equal work. No discrimination. But right now I would settle for a bag of Fritos!"

I wrinkle my nose. "Fritos?"

"Joshua," she says, her tone low.

"Donna, there's a convenience store two blocks away. I can be back in fifteen minutes."

"No." If I didn't know better, I would say she's pouting. "I don't want anything."

I stare at her in disbelief. "You just scoured the entire kitchen--"

Donna raises an eyebrow, and I recognize the look in time to stop talking.

"Donnatella." I push myself up from the couch and approach her carefully. "C'mere."

She glares at me some more. "No, Josh. That is definitely not what I want right now."

I stop just a few inches inside her personal space. "Are you sure?"

Donna gives me a scathing look.

"Cause I actually do have some junk food in the house."

Her eyes narrow. "Where?" she demands.

I give her a helpless shrug. "Well, if that's going to be your attitude--"

"Joshua."

I take her hand and tug her toward the bedroom, ignoring her skeptical look.

"Let me guess; you hid it in your bed," she says flatly.

"Donna," I admonish, "you shouldn't think me so calculating."

"Josh, you're dangling food in front of me to get me into bed," she points out. I can't help but notice the sudden upswing in her mood.

"I am not!" I say with feigned indignation. "I am offering my lovely wife something I think she might like, and I am not expecting anything in return."

She snorts but can't hide the look of interest on her face. "Chocolate?" she guesses.

I grin at her and lead her to the side of the bed. She is fighting a smile as she sinks onto the edge of the mattress. I lean down and place a kiss on her forehead, then reach into the nightstand.

Yes, I keep chocolates in my nightstand. Right next to the condoms. Just call me Don Juan.

I turn back to Donnatella and slide to my knees in front of her. I open my hand and offer her the chocolate. "Caramel filling," I whisper.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I am hard-pressed to stay still. My free hand smooths up her thigh until she pulls me closer, her wide eyes on the chocolate.

I lift the chocolate to her lips, and Donna meets my gaze as she sucks it from my fingers. The sight is unbearably erotic. I realize belatedly that I am clenching her thigh.

We stare at each other for a long moment before she leans down to kiss me. Passionately. She tastes like chocolate.

And then I kiss my way down that amazing body and do my level best to alleviate her stress level.  
***

"Josh," I say. I don't think he heard me. I try again. "Joshua."

He mumbles something incoherent. Well, he is rather focused on what he's doing. It's not that I don't appreciate the effort, but I need to say this now before I lose my train of thought.

"We have to talk, Josh. Now."

He looks up. "Now? As in right this minute?"

"Yes."  
"'Cause I have to say I'm not exactly going to be the best conversationalist at the moment. Give me five minutes."

I have to raise an eyebrow at that. "Five minutes? Gee, thanks."

"Ten?"

"Fifteen. After we talk."

"Whatever." He falls back against the headboard. "What's so urgent?"

"Christmas."

"You're picking this moment to give me your Christmas list?"

I have to laugh. "Well, I'd say that, at this moment, you have an excellent incentive to agree to whatever I want."

"You're turning into quite the master politician yourself there, Donnatella." He starts with the kissing again, but I refuse to be sidetracked.

"Honestly, Josh, we really have to talk about what happens at Christmas."

"Really, Donna, a nice Protestant girl like you ought to know that. Baby Jesus, three wise men, some fat guy in a red suit breaking into houses to deliver toys, Charlie Brown and some scrawny looking tree. There is also mistletoe. I admit to being irrationally fond of the mistletoe."

"Yes, you made that clear last year. However, if you will recall, the Moss-Lyman Defense Strategy--"

"Lyman-Moss."

"The Moss-Lyman Strategy originally called for us to go public on Christmas Eve."

"Oh." His face falls, and he has that look he gets when he's afraid of disappointing me.

"That's what I figured," I say. I don't want to sound disappointed, but, dammit, I am.

"I want to, Donna. God, I want to. But things haven't gone exactly according to plan so far."

"I said from the start that there was a flaw in your reasoning."

"We have to prove that--"

"We're a model of professionalism and efficiency. I remember."

"It's all my fault, I know."

"Josh." I pull him closer to me and hold his face between my hands. "It's really not. None of it was your fault."

"Still. Leo would point out that we were not exactly a model of professionalism for awhile there."

"Yes, but there were extenuating circumstances. Which I don't think even Leo could say adversely effected our working relationship."

"No, it didn't. But considering that Leo's been upset enough to order Ainsley Hayes to revise the interoffice dating policy, I don't think this is exactly the moment to tell him we got married back in June and just forgot to mention it to him."

"Especially considering that the new policy leaves it up to Leo as to whether we get to keep working together. I know."

Josh kisses my forehead, which is rather nice. "I don't like this any more than you do, Donnatella."

And, you know, I've had a terrible day. I've had Josh springing this on me in the middle of what was shaping up as an awfully nice morning, I've had Frances badgering me, I've had the joys of holiday shopping and a horrific day at work. I snap. Completely unfair of me, I know, but I'm suddenly fed up with the entire situation.

"That's not true," I say.

"Excuse me?"

"You're loving this, Josh. You're completely in your element. You get to turn your personal life -- our personal lives -- into this whole game of outwitting Leo and anyone who would make our getting married into a-- a thing."

He looks more than a little puzzled. "I thought you agreed--"

"I did. I do. But don't pretend like you're not getting some pleasure out of this whole strategy thing, because you are. And I'm not."

"You're not?"

"No. I do not like lying to my friends, my family and my co-workers. I do not like pretending to be single. I especially do not like the part where I can't even spend the night with my own husband."

"Fine," he says. Suddenly, he's reaching for the phone.

Oh, shit.

"What are you doing?" I ask. Although I have a pretty good idea.

"Calling Leo."

I reach over and grab the phone out of his hands before he can start dialing. "Are you out of your mind?"

"It's not worth it," he says. "If you're unhappy, it's not worth it. We'll just tell Leo now and take our chances."

"No," I answer. "We'll wait. It would be stupid to have come this far just to blow it now."

"Are you sure?"

I sigh. "Yes, I'm sure. I mean, I'm sure depending on -- just how much longer were you planning to wait now?"

"Spring."

"Spring?"

"Well, it has to come out by April 15, one way or another. After all, there are the income tax forms. Even if we file separately, they ask for marital status. And then comes the financial disclosure statements, and the secret's pretty much out. So we're looking at March or April, at the very least."

"Three or four more months?"

"Three or four more months."

"I suppose I can hold on that much longer. But that does bring up the problem of Christmas."

"And Christmas is a problem because...?"

"Because my family expects me to come home for the holidays. And I can't exactly tell them I'd rather spend any free time my impossibly demanding boss decides to give me with my husband. Who is also my impossibly demanding boss."

"I wouldn't say impossibly demanding."

"I would. And you're missing the issue here."

"No more demanding than any other--"

"Josh, this is serious! I have to go to Frances' for the holidays."

"Frances? Your sister Frances? Your Republican sister Frances?"

"That's where my parents are spending Christmas, so that's where I'll be."

"But it's a three-day weekend! I was going to take actual time off."

"I know, but I can't explain this to my parents."

"Why not?"

"It's Christmas. This is a very big deal. Single women are supposed to spend Christmas with their parents, so they can be treated as though they're still fourteen and don't know what they want to do with their lives."

"You're not a single woman."

"And no one knows that except you. And CJ. It's for the good of the Moss-Lyman Defense."

"Lyman-Moss. And it's not."

"It's only three days, Josh."

"We could work it so it's five."

"What?"

"We could work it so it's five days off. We could go someplace together. We could spend five entire nights in the same bed."

"Josh, be reasonable."

"I am being reasonable. How difficult is it to make up a story for your parents anyway? Your impossibly demanding boss--"

"Oh, so now you finally agree with me?"

"Is making you work through the holidays. You won't have enough free time to come home. You can sell it."

"I don't think so."

"Five days, Donnatella. Five nights."

"I'm not sure."

And then, being the complete bastard he is, Josh plays dirty. He does the one thing he knows I can't resist. He turns totally vulnerable on me. "I can't take five days without you," he says.

"Three," I say. But he's won me over now, and we both know it.

"I couldn't take that either," he replies.

What do you say to something like that? What do you say to a man who spends most of his days in the same office with you, as much of his nights with you as the two of you can get away with, and who still can't stand the idea of seventy-two hours apart?

I sigh. "I don't know how I'm going to explain this to my mother," I tell him.  
***  
END PART I


	2. Chapter 2

"New Hampshire," I offer.

Donna looks at me like I've suggested we should immediately relocate to Clovis, New Mexico, to search for alien life. "New Hampshire?"

"What's wrong with New Hampshire?"

"It's in New England."

"I'm aware of that," I say. "So is Connecticut. Hell, so is Maine, for that matter, and you seemed to enjoy our time in Maine."

"I liked Maine a lot," Donna says soothingly. "But I'm saying it's winter now."

"So?"

"So New Hampshire in the winter is cold."

"So is D.C.," I point out reasonably.

"Exactly," Donna nods. "So why don't we go somewhere warm and tropical? You know, like Bali."

I give her an incredulous look. "You understand we only have five days, right?"

"Yes."

"So taking up two-and-a-half on planes seems a bit--"

"Somewhere closer then," she shrugs. "Puerto Rico."

"You want a tropical Christmas?"

"Why not?"

It takes me a minute to come up with words to explain how wrong a tropical Christmas would be. "Because," I sputter finally, "Christmas and Chanukah require snow!"

Donna looks amused. "They require snow?"

I hold my ground. "They're winter holidays. Winter means snow."

Donna crosses her arms. "Winter actually refers to a specific period of time marked by long nights and short days, during which the Northern Hemisphere of the earth is tilted away from the sun."

I stare at her for a moment. "You have a freakish knowledge of all things trivial, you know that?"

"Green is such an unbecoming shade for you," she grins.

"Right," I scoff. "Like I want to be able to name the six dwarfs or know what year Cagney & Lacey went on the air."

Her smile widens. "There are seven dwarfs, and 1982."

I try but can't fight the answering grin on my face. "You didn't actually name the dwarfs."

"Sleepy, Dopey, Grumpy--"

"Okay, okay." I throw up my hands in defeat. "You win."

I swear she doesn't even take a breath between subjects. "You know what snow means?"

I frown, puzzled. "Are you asking me to define the word snow?"

"No," she snickers. "You said winter means snow. I'm saying snow means snowball fights."

I smirk at her. "That and whitewashes."

She raises an eyebrow. "Whitewashes?"

I nod confidently. "Yup. I put you in a snowbank and, you know, smear your entire body with snow."

A slow smile spreads across her face. "In your dreams."

"Nah, snow is rarely involved."

She rolls her eyes. "Still. You couldn't whitewash me if you tried."

"Oh, really?" I cross my arms. "You think I can't do it?"

"I think you can try and that if you do, you will end up a very cold man."

"I do believe that was a challenge," I say.

Donna shrugs carelessly. "Statement of fact."

"So we're going to New Hampshire?"

Donna frowns. "I've seen New Hampshire. And besides, isn't that perilously close to the president?"

"We are not going anywhere near Manchester," I assure her. "There's a place up in the White Mountains called Castle in the Clouds."

And there it is: Donnatella's agreeable face. A rare sighting indeed.

"Castle in the Clouds?" she repeats dreamily.

"I figured we can take the train up to Boston, then rent a car and drive up to the mountains. Four nights there, and the last day and night in Boston."

Donna grins at me. "Sounds heavenly."

"Better than Bali?"

"Hell, no," she answers. "We're going there next year."  
***

This is the hard part. This is the part I'm dreading. This is the part where I turn into a twelve-year-old girl again.

I have to tell my mother I won't be home for Christmas.

Okay, deep breaths. I can do this.

Especially since I'm home, Josh isn't here to, you know, make disparaging remarks about Republicans, and I can concentrate on plausible excuses.

I have to work. It's the White House. Sometimes you have to put your family second.

I will ignore the fact that my true family is in the White House. In fact, he's working overtime tonight. He only let me out because he saw I was going to go nuts if I didn't get home to make this phone call soon.  
Deep breaths. This is not going to be that hard. I told off an ambassador today. Very politely. I can stand firm in the face of my mother's wrath.

Donnatella Moss-Lyman, stop shaking.

The phone call starts off well. I don't have to say much of anything beyond "Hi, Mom." I am then treated to ten minutes of gossip about people I barely remember, haven't seen in years and could care less about.

"Mom," I say when a conversational opening finally arrives, "I need to talk to you about the holidays."

"Oh, that," Mom says. "Frances already told me you were upset, but you have to realize that this is the easiest way for her to manage."

"I'm not coming home, Mom. I have to work through Christmas."

"You have to what?" I hold the phone away from my ear; she's really shouting.

"We're very busy right now. There's tons of stuff to do, what with the new Congress coming in and all. State of the Union next month. The veto on the Defense of Marriage Act. We're very busy."

"So busy that you can ignore your own family on Christmas?"

"I'm not ignoring; I'm--"

"You haven't been home since last Christmas, Donnatella."

"I know, Mom, but things were -- I was needed here."

"Yes, and we all know who needed you. I thought Frances was making too much of that, but apparently she's right."

Uh-oh.

"I don't know what you mean, Mom."

"I think you do."

Please, Mom, don't say it out loud.

"I'm taking some time off in the spring, Mom. March or April. I'll be home then."

"I worry about you, Donnatella. You're throwing away your life on this-- this--"

Mother, if your mouth is headed where I think it is, I may never come home.

"This person."

"Well, possibly, but, you know, I believe in President Bartlet." Another disaster averted. "Look, Mom, I'll send the presents to Frances' house, and I'll call you first chance I get. Gotta go. Give my love to Dad."

I hang up the phone as quickly as possible and repeat my new mantra: Castle in the Clouds, Castle in the Clouds, Castle in the Clouds. But the nagging thought won't go away:

My family hates me.

And I'm awfully afraid I'm setting them up to hate Josh.  
***

"No." I cross my arms and shake my head for good measure. You know, in case Donna failed to grasp the meaning of the word 'no.'

"Yes," Donna counters defiantly.

"I'm Jewish."

"I'm aware of that."

"So," I sputter. "Jews don't celebrate Christmas."

Donna gives me her amused face. "These are all things I know."

I shake my head again. "No."

She rolls her eyes. "Do you see why I still don't buy your SAT scores?"

"Donna, I am not cooking Christmas cookies! There's no way. In no universe -- and if you believe the multiverse theory, there are many, many universes and many, many Joshs -- but in none of them will I be making cookies!"

Donna stares at me, nonplussed. "Baking."

"What?"

"You bake cookies," she explains. "You don't cook them."

"Then why are they called cookies?"

Donna doesn't deign to reply, turning instead to the unidentifiable implements she's scattered throughout my kitchen.

"Seriously," I continue. "Wouldn't they more accurately be called, I don't know, bakies?" And then it hits me: Dear God -- I'm starting to sound like my wife.

Donna tosses me a knowing look. "Josh, call them Chanukah bakies if you prefer, but you're going to help me."

"I'm really not."

"You really are."

"But, Donna," I say in a tone just this side of whining. "I can't cook. Bake. Whatever. Put me in a kitchen and bad things happen." I narrow my eyes. "Speaking of which, you're not exactly Julia Child. Are you sure you can bake cookies?"

Oops. Donna glares at me, hands on her hips. "Joshua, for your information, cooking takes actual time and energy. Were I not slaving away at the White House eighty hours a week, maybe I could, you know, learn to cook."

I ease my way around the flashing danger signs. "I don't think I could learn even if I had the time. Which is to say--"

"You are helping, Joshua," Donna talks over me. "Think you can handle stirring?"

"Stirring?" I repeat blankly. "Why will there be stirring involved? Are we making liquid cookies?"

She gives me a withering glance . "Have you ever spent more than ten seconds at a stretch inside your kitchen? Any kitchen?"

"No," I admit.

"Cookie dough is liquid. Well, not liquid precisely," she frowns. "At some point, it's a liquid."

I can feel my face scrunching up in distaste. "Yuck. I don't think I want any part of this."

"Tough." Donna grabs my arm as I start to leave the room. "We are making cookies for the office, dammit, and you are helping."

I heave a trod-upon sigh. "Why don't you just buy everyone some flowers or muffins or something? That always works for me."

"I would if I could afford it," she says pointedly. "And until you give me a raise, you're my baking assistant."

I grin at her. "I'm your assistant?"

"Yes," she answers haughtily. "Now get me some eggs."

"Oh, this is going to be fun," I say with a smirk.

"Joshua," Donna warns. "There will be no throwing of food."

I nod at her, but I'm still smirking. "Sure, Donna."

Ten minutes later I am, predictably, frosted with flour. Maybe some sugar too; I can't really tell. I'm not particularly talented at the art of food fighting -- I ended up with non-stick items as weapons.

As a result, Donna has only good ingredients on her. I don't know how she managed, but there's only a smear of that scary green sugar on her neck and a couple of chocolate chips stuck in her hair. I am fighting the urge to lick her skin.

Donna stands by the counter, one hand ready and waiting with a fistful of flour. She is flushed and laughing, and I feel suddenly festive. Christmas can be my new favorite holiday if it makes Donna this playful.

"Do you concede?" Donna asks.

I give her an incredulous look. "Are you crazy?"

She is positively radiant as she advances on me. I allow myself to be cornered -- who wouldn't? -- and she backs me up against the countertop. When she moves to toss the flour at me, I step inside the swing and grab her around the waist.

Up close, the sugar is irresistible on her skin, so I lean in and feast on her slender neck.

Donna wraps her arm around me with a low moan. I feather several kisses along the line of her jaw as her hand slips under my shirt. She strokes the small of my back and shifts against me. Then, her fingers trail to my waistband, yank it away from my body, and her free hand dumps a heaping pile of flour down my pants. Cold flour.

I jerk away from her, my jaw somewhere around my knees. Donna is actually bent double with laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks.

I stare at her for a moment, a grin forming. "See, I could retaliate right now," I say, my tone conversational even as I tug on my belt. "Or we could call it a tie and hit the showers."

"A tie?" Donna is still snickering. "I kicked your ass."

I undo my fly and let my pants fall to the floor. "No, you didn't."

She grins at me. "You look like an idiot."

I glance down. Pants in a bunch around my ankles, legs whitened with streaks of flour, boxers nearly hidden by the crumpled tails of my shirt. I smirk back at her. "You know you want me."

Donna has on her amorous face. "I do," she nods as she slides up onto the counter and beckons to me. "But you still look like an idiot."  
***

If I have a flaw (and before he has a chance to comment on that, let me just say, "Shut up, Josh!"), it's that I'm too practical. (Again, will someone tell the deputy chief of staff to put a sock in it?) So while I agree with my husband that sharing a shower has obvious advantages, my mind gets sidetracked too easily.

Take now, for instance. Josh seems to be laboring under the misconception that all the cookie ingredients landed on my breasts. As misconceptions go, this is a pleasant one. Yet what am I thinking about? I'm thinking about the $17.52 I spent on cookie ingredients, much of which has now gone down the drain. 

Literally.

"Don't worry about it," Josh says when I voice my reasonable regrets.

"I don't have a lot of money. This represents--"

"You married well."

"Not that well. I've seen your paycheck."

"I make enough to keep my wife in cookie dough." He smirks. "Which is, you know, a good look for you."

"I'm just saying that we wasted a considerable amount of dough. We're Democrats; we're supposed to care about world hunger."

"You've got chocolate chips in your hair." He always changes the subject when I'm making a legitimate point.

"Hand me the shampoo."

"I'll do it for you," he says just a little too eagerly.

Practical Donna bypasses the erotic possibilities inherent in this offer. "No, Josh, you'll make a mess of it, and I'll have to start over."

"I think I know how to apply shampoo."

I direct an eloquent look at his hair. "Is that a fact?"

"It'll be fun."

"You're having too much fun today."

"I haven't had nearly enough." This is said with such feeling that I tell Practical Donna to take a hike.

So Josh proceeds to shampoo my hair. This is nice. This is fun. The man has his flaws, but he's positively gifted when it comes to the use of his hands. Not to mention that, in the shower, we've got this whole height thing going.

See, most of the time we're at work and I have on heels. I learned long ago that while high heels can be a pain (literally), they have one great advantage -- they make me almost as tall as Josh. This is not something to be taken lightly. I've observed how those extra inches work in CJ's favor, and so I've learned to walk (and run) in three-inch heels in order to look Josh squarely in the eye at work. Here, however, there's something oddly appealing about being just short enough so I can rest my head comfortably on my husband's shoulders.

My husband has very nice shoulders.

The rest of him isn't bad either. Since he's doing a reasonably good job of keeping the shampoo out of my eyes, let's review. Starting at the top, there's that unruly mop of hair. You'd be surprised -- I know I was -- to discover what it really feels like. Oh sure, it's unruly and difficult to manage; but when you get up close, you discover it's actually quite soft. Which is, when you think about it, a damn good metaphor for Josh himself.

Then there are his eyes. I kid him a lot, I know, about being a terrible liar, but his eyes are to blame for that. Besides being an incredible shade of brown, Josh's eyes reveal everything that's in his heart. Like now.

If I start crying, I'll just tell him he got shampoo in my eyes. No big deal.

This brings us to his mouth. Very expressive, that mouth. A smirk for every occasion. Now and then, you get the full-out smile, which is one of the western world's underrated treasures. A smiling Josh is a dimpled Josh. He hates his dimples, by the way. He, in fact, denies their existence. Little boys have dimples; master politicians do not. But he is a master politician and he does have dimples; and when he smiles, they will take your breath away.

This brings us, more or less, to those shoulders I mentioned before. Good, strong shoulders connected to surprisingly muscular arms and the most talented hands it has ever been my pleasure to know. Trust me here: the man is turning "lather, rinse, repeat" into quite the exercise in foreplay.

All right, on to the subject of Josh's chest. You know I'm going to get emotional over this, so let's just deal with the scar and get it over with. At first, I couldn't look at the scar without tearing up and thinking how much I hated the bastards who did that to him. Now, however, the scar seems surprisingly appropriate. I mean, if Josh's eyes give away his emotions, why shouldn't he have this mark over his heart attesting to the battles he's fought this year? The scar doesn't look out of place to me anymore; it's part of who he is. As much as I'd, you know, give my life to save him from that, this is Joshua, flaws, scars and all.

"Donna? Are you okay?" He has a great voice. I mean, under any circumstances, Josh has a great voice. But under certain conditions, he has this very soft, raspy tone that -- well, it's quite attractive.

"You got soap in my eyes, you idiot."

"Here." He reaches for a washcloth and dabs at my eyes (and the non-existent soap) ever so gently. See? I told you he was skilled with those hands. Knows just what kind of touch is called for in every situation.  
I place one hand around his waist, strictly to balance myself, you understand. Practical Donna is all too aware of the percentage of accidents that occur in the shower.

And this, I suppose, brings us to the lower half of Josh's anatomy.

It's all good.

What? You want more detail?

If I must. There is, I should note, not one ounce of flab on the man. I attribute this completely to the fact that his amazing assistant takes such good care of him.

And his legs -- nice legs, strong. From all that running around the West Wing, I suppose. Let me tell you, it is not easy keeping up with him.

Yes, I know what you're really wondering about. That is absolutely none of your business.

But it's pretty damn near perfect, I'll tell you that.  
***

I am rifling through Donna's Rolodex, trying not to leave a trail. I have a feeling she'll know, though. I just hope she chalks it up to my usual idiocy and doesn't pursue it further. Because I don't want to get into why I'm going through her Rolodex with Donna; I'm doing it for her. Donna is depressed.

Well, not so much depressed as feeling guilty. And it is, as always, stunningly my fault.

Her family is giving her hell for abandoning them for the holidays -- although why they want her there other than to harass her for her political inclinations is beyond me.

That's not fair, I guess.

After all, I've never met the Moss clan. I've only heard stories -- about their Republicanism, about Frances' love of expensive things. Stuff like that.

But I figure there has to be some good there to have produced someone as amazing as my Donnatella Viridis Moss-Lyman. And since they were in some part responsible for delivering Donna into my tender care, I have to give them some grudging respect. But really -- how much respect can you have for Republicans?

I'm doing my best here, although it's hard to overcome my Democratic tendencies. I guess it is the season of peace and joy and all that. And so I am hunting for the proper address for Francesca Hudson so that I can send something to the Moss family.

Finally -- success!

Wait -- Frances lives in Birmingham, Michigan, wherever the hell that is. I was expecting downtown Chicago. Or somewhere with a bit of caché. Whatever.

It occurs to me that I have no idea which florist we usually use. I give the overflowing Rolodex a baleful look. It doesn't offer any assistance.

I head next door.

"Carol?"

CJ's assistant looks up with an ever-present smile. "Hey, Josh."

"I've got a quick question for you -- which florist do we usually use?"

Carol looks amused. "'We' as in the White House?"

"Yes."

"We use many florists, Josh," she explains. "Depending on the size of the function--"

"Not a function," I interrupt. "Just a gift basket or something for -- for a family. A friend's family."

"We usually use Delaney's on Dupont Circle." Carol gives me a sympathetic look. "Do you need the number?"

I nod, and she pulls a card from her Rolodex and efficiently scribbles the information on a bright pink sticky note.

"Thanks, Carol."

I retreat to my office and dial Delaney's. After a few minutes on hold, I get a live person and explain what I need. The clerk informs me that they offer many different types of gift baskets; but heedful of CJ's comments, I steer clear of cheese and sausages. Instead, I send two large gift baskets with gourmet coffee, truffles, candy canes and assorted candles, plus three kid's baskets with foil-wrapped chocolate Santas, reindeer, and (Democratic) gender-neutral toys.

"Let me just double check this," the clerk says. "You want one Gourmandier sent to the Moss Family, one Gourmandier plus the three Children's Cornucopias to the Hudson Family, all to this address?"

"Yes," I confirm.

"And what should the cards say?"

I have to think about it for a moment, but I finally decide on "'In appreciation of the gift you gave the entire staff of the Bartlet White House in the person of Donnatella Moss, we send our fondest wishes for a happy holiday season. The White House Staff.' And just 'Happy Holidays' for the kids."

"Got it," the clerk says. "Do you want this order billed to the usual account?"

"No," I say. "This one's on me."  
***

"This is too much," Josh mutters.

"You want me to spend Christmas with you or with my parents?" I counter.

"I helped you bake cookies for the office. I have done my part."

"'Help' is perhaps not the word I would have used. And I have to get these things wrapped and shipped off to Frances today if there's any chance of my parents getting their gifts by Christmas."

"I should care about that because...?"

"Because if I don't at least get presents to them on time, they will blame you."

"Again I ask, I should care because...?"

"They're your in-laws, Josh. You want to make a good impression."

"They don't know they're my in-laws, they're Republicans, and I really don't."

"Josh!"

"You don't even like them."

"Not true. I love my family."

"Yes, but you don't like them."

"Still."

"We have to pack," Josh points out. "Packing is more important than wrapping."

"Fine. You go pack. I'll wrap."

"You want me to do the packing?"

"It would save time."

"It really wouldn't."

"Josh!"

"You'll say I made a mess of it. You'll unpack everything and start over. You'll say I forgot stuff."

"I made a list of everything you need. Just follow that and you'll be fine."

"I won't. It's an inefficient use of time. Besides," he says with what I imagine he thinks is a seductive leer, "if I pack, I might ignore the list. You'll end up in New Hampshire with nothing but a few items from Victoria's Secret."

"Then you're going to have to help me wrap these packages. Here, you can start with this one to Anna."

"Who's Anna?"

"My niece. Frances' daughter."

"Is her name really Anna?"

"Yes, it's -- well, Anna's the short version."

He finally sits down beside me, ready to be entertained. "And what would the long version be?"

"Anastasia Epiphany."

"You mean that a woman doomed to go through life as Francesca Caprice Moss-Hudson--"

"Just Hudson. Frances doesn't believe in hyphens."

"Francesca Caprice Hudson then. She ends up naming her own child Anastasia Epiphany."

"I know. I couldn't believe it either. She said she was planning on Susan, but then this name just struck her. You might say she had an epiphany in the delivery room." This gives me a fit of the giggles, but Josh is looking at me horror-stricken.

"Donna, I love you, but I am going to have to insist that you let me name the kids."

"Oh, and you think you could do a better job than I could?"

"Given this strange affliction that comes over the women in your family when they set foot in a delivery room,   
I'm pretty sure of it, yes."

"And just what kind of names would you pick out?"

"Sensible Democratic names."

"Democratic names?"

"Yeah, like, like -- Lyndon."

"Lyndon?"

"Yes. Lyndon."

"Lyndon Lyman?"

"Exactly."

"You want my son to go through life with a name like Lyndon Lyman?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Say it three times fast."

He tries and fails miserably. "Okay, I see your point. How about Franklin?"

"Franklin Lyman? Josh, could we keep the 'L' sounds to a minimum? And let's not even go into the whole '50s rock star thing."

"Kennedy."

"Better," I say, placing the bow on the present for Anna that Josh managed to wrap while conceding that no son of mine will go through life as Lyndon Lyman. "It still lacks something, however."

"You've got a better idea?" he asks, reaching for the Harry Potter novel I'm sending my oldest nephew (Aloysius Etienne, in case you're wondering).

"We could also name him Josiah," I point out. "Democratic, classic, plus it wins us those much-needed brownie points."

"Josiah Kennedy Lyman," Josh repeats. "With a name like that, the kid's going to be the first Jewish president."

"Fine," I say, taking Al's present and handing him the one to my other nephew. (You really don't want to know. Trust me; Frances outdid herself on this one.) "Now what do we name our daughter?"

By the time we settle on Molly (as in Ivins) Jordan (as in Barbara) Lyman, the presents are wrapped.

But, for the record, I still think Hypatia Sojourner is a perfectly valid choice.  
***

I can't help it -- I'm snickering.

Donna pulls back and looks up at me, her impatient face on. "Is this somehow amusing to you?"

"No." It's not. Really. Donna returns to her task, which is quite enjoyable. She is enthusiastically divesting me of my clothing.

We are done wrapping presents, we are done packing, and we have nothing left to do tonight but enjoy each other's company. So to speak.

Which begs the question -- why am I snickering like a ten-year-old with a stolen piece of candy?

Donna nips at the spot just above my hipbone, and I jump. My hands are tangled in her hair, as I'm far too distracted by her actions and my thoughts to remove her clothing.

"Josh," Donna glances up again, "a little help?"

Right. I am going to pay attention to this now. Really.

I lean down and devour her mouth. She is amazing. I can almost forget about it. And then I start laughing out loud.

Donna pushes me down on the bed and glares at me. "What is your problem?"

I am helpless with laughter now, and I must look like a complete idiot. Half-naked and hysterical, sprawled out across the mattress.

Donna is trying to keep her features schooled into an expression of irritation, but it's not working. The corners of her mouth are twitching. "Josh," she implores.

"It's just -- I can't--" And I'm laughing again.

Donna crosses her arms under her breasts, and she's really quite amazing. If I weren't already short of breath from laughter, I would be just from looking at her.

"Josh." She is grinning helplessly at me. "You are a complete idiot."

"I've heard that before," I manage. My voice is oddly strained.

"What is so funny?"

"Nothing." And then I promptly dissolve into giggles. I mean, really -- men don't giggle, but I'm doing a damn good approximation of one, at any rate.

"Joshua! This is about my sister's kids, isn't it?"

I nod. My stomach hurts.

"It's not their fault," she protests.

"I know -- but --but -- Ackerley?" I snicker. "What do they call him for short, Ack?"

And I am lost.

Donna is laughing into the pillow. "Joshua," she wails, "they call him Lee."

"Wait." I take a couple of deep breaths, and it actually hurts my diaphragm. "What's his middle name?"

Donna stares at me for a moment, then loses it again. "Hieronymos."

"Ack--" I can't even attempt the two together.

The entire bed shakes with our laughter for what feels like hours. By the time our amusement subsides, I'm exhausted. I reach over and grab her hand. "Thank God we decided on Josiah and Molly well in advance."

Donna rolls toward me and ends up snug against my side. "Too bad we're not having Molly until after re-election." Her hand snakes inside my shirt.

I am puzzled. I am also rather distracted by her talented fingers. "Huh?" I say.

"Molly Ivins and Barbara Jordan are both Texans," she explains patiently.

"So?"

"So," she says, then nibbles a bit on my shoulder. "The president lost Texas in the primary and the election. I'm saying if there were a little Molly Jordan around, maybe we wouldn't need Hoynes to deliver the Texas Democrats."

I sit up quite suddenly. My wife is brilliant! "Donna, we should have Molly before re-election! She can help us win the south!"

I dive for Donna, but she scoots out of the way rather energetically. "Hang on there, Politics Guy."

I pull my face out of the mattress and give her a look. "'Politics Guy?'"

She is buttoning her shirt. Why is she buttoning her shirt?

"We are not having a baby for political expediency," she states unequivocally. "There is also the little complication that nobody but CJ knows we're even married."

Donna is still disappointed about the Lyman-Moss Strategy. I can relate. And I curse myself for being such an insensitive jerk just then. I reach out to her and touch her face. "I know, Donnatella."

She stops getting dressed. I am experiencing hope. "So we're agreed?"

"Of course," I tug on her collar, and she comes willingly.  
***

We do some of our best plotting in bed.

Which is why I think we should talk tonight before doing anything, um, recreational.

"We need a plan," I tell Josh.

"Oh, I don't know," he says. I swear, the man gets too much fun out of deliberately misinterpreting me. "I was enjoying being spontaneous."

"You know what I'm referring to."

"Let's see," he goes on, ignoring me as usual, "last night you were on top, so I suppose tonight's plan would call for--"

"Christmas plans, Joshua. We have to, you know, fool the people who run the country."

"You say that as though I'm not one of those people."

"You know, when we actually move in together, we're going to need a bigger place. There's not room in here for the two of us and your ego."

"I'm just reminding you about the supportive wife thing."

"This is scheduling. This is me in assistant mode."

"You want to plan this now?"

"Yes, I do. We may not be going near Manchester, but being in the same state as the Bartlets when we're supposed to be visiting our respective families makes me nervous."

"Okay, we buy plane tickets for Connecticut and wherever the hell Frances lives."

"Detroit. We're actually buying these tickets?"

"Yes, we're actually buying these tickets. We have to make this look convincing."

"I need a raise."

"I should have seen that one coming."

"Honestly, Josh, I can't afford to buy airplane tickets I'm not going to use."

"We can afford it."

"I really can't."

"Okay, reality check. You're married. To the White House deputy chief of staff. I make more than minimum wage."

"Try this reality check: In twenty years or so, we're going to have to start paying college tuition. And since you're going to insist that our children go to Ivy League schools--"

"Can you imagine what their verbal SAT scores are going to be like? I mean, with you and me as parents?"

"Yeah. We can have little t-shirts made for them that say 'Born to banter.' However, given the current rate of inflation, in twenty years college tuition will have risen--"

"Have you been listening to the president again?"

"I'm just saying that we should start saving for their education now, you know, and here we are spending money on airplane tickets we're not using. Plus I'm not going to turn into one of those women who lives off her husband's money."

"Your husband thanks you, but I think I can pay for one airplane ticket to Detroit."

"You say that now, but wait until the bill arrives."

"Can we get back to the plan?"

"Fine. We buy the tickets. I presume we wave them around the office a lot and talk about our separate vacation trips. I may take Irving home to meet Mom and Dad. They'll love him."

"They'll be horrified when they see the crosseyed freak."

"Irving is not crosseyed."

"Whatever. Then there's the matter of getting in and out of the airport."

"Oh, for the love of God, Josh, not again."

"You want this to work?"

"I doubt that anyone is watching us that closely. We don't actually have to go to the airport. Besides, if we time this right, we can leave from home and no one will be the wiser. "

"We should at least park our cars at the airport while we're gone. That will look good."

"Josh, I never park at the airport. I either get a cab, or CJ or Margaret or somebody gives me a ride."

"All right then, I'll park at the airport and take a cab back to your place. We'll tell CJ to say she gave you a ride to the airport. You'll have to be sure she knows when you're leaving so she gets the time right."

"You love all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, don't you?"

"I just don't want to slip up."

"So when are we leaving?"

"How should I know? You're the one who controls the schedule."

"And you are the one who tells me if I can have a day off."

"Oh. Right. I say we leave Saturday morning. Maybe Friday night if we can manage it."

"Just pick a day and go with it, Josh."

"Friday night."

"Am I supposed to make the reservations for the real trip?"

"Well, actually, I already made them."

"All by yourself? Josh, I'm so proud of you!"

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Donnatella."

"Whatever. Now about that other plan you were mentioning..."  
***

I arrive at Donna's place early -- amazingly, I found a space at the long-term lot at Dulles and a cab in record time -- and let myself in, lugging an awkwardly large, poorly-wrapped present with me.

"Josh?" Donna calls from the other room. "Give me two minutes."

"Okay." I glance around a bit before setting the box on the coffee table.

Donna lugs a suitcase into the living room. "I wasn't sure how cold -- What is that?"

I motion her over. "Your Christmas present." Donna gives me an unreadable look.

"Should I open it now?"

"Sure."

She kisses me quickly, then attacks the silver wrapping. I notice she's wearing her ring and can't help the goofy grin. Donna pulls the two-foot fiber optic tree from its wrappings and gives me a delighted look.

"Oh, Josh. It's perfect!"

I grin at her. "No cats."

"Right," she nods. "Plus it doesn't need to be watered."

I give her a grave look. "I've seen what you do to household plants. I thought I'd get you this and save some trees from a slow, hideous death."

"Hey!" She smacks my leg lightly, then sobers. "Do you want your present now?" she asks quietly.

I am a bit confused by her demeanor, but I've never been one to refuse a gift. "Okay," I answer, rubbing my hands together in anticipation.

Donna rises and circles the couch. She pulls a small, neatly-wrapped box from the front pocket of her suitcase and wordlessly hands it over. I am an incurable present-shaker, but the look on her face stops me. Instead, I untie the beautiful red bow and peel off the gold paper.

It looks like -- a jewelry box? I glance up at Donna before I open it. She's fidgeting, and I'm suddenly nervous.

Inside is a wedding band. Donna bought me a wedding ring.

I am floored, utterly speechless. Somehow, Donna managed to find a wedding band for me that echoes the lines of her ring. Strands of gold endlessly interwoven.

My eyes are suspiciously wet.

Donna must take my silence for disappointment. "If you don't like it--"

I look up at her. "I love it," I whisper, my voice husky. "It's perfect."

She studies my face for a moment, then beams at me. "I was planning to give it to you Christmas Eve, you know, before the thing, but now..." She trails off and shrugs. "I don't know when you'll be able to wear it, but I thought maybe this weekend you'd--"

"Absolutely." My voice is stronger now. "Would you?" I offer her the box.

Donna pulls the band free and reaches for my left hand. She gives me a quick, hard kiss before slipping the ring onto my finger, struggling a bit when it reaches my knuckle. But the ring is a perfect fit.

I reach up with my left hand and cradle her face, kissing her with all the feeling inside of me.

I pull away, eventually, so that we don't miss our train. I can't stop looking at the ring on my finger. I flex my hand. "How did you know the size?"

"Oh," she says, with her guilty face on. "By the way, if you were looking for your Harvard ring, I've got it. Sorry."

"Don't apologize, Donnatella," I admonish. "Thank you. This is the second-most amazing gift I've ever received."

She gives me a curious look. "Second-most?" she echoes. "What was the first?"

I take her hand. "You."  
*  
Donna starts shooting me sidelong looks when we're passing through the pine-tree-encrusted land that signs tell us is Londonderry, New Hampshire. Whatever that is. Looks like a whole lot of nothing with some fast food restaurants and gas stations every few miles.

But I digress.

Donna's giving me the disapproving looks because we just passed a road sign that said: "Manchester, 12 miles."

I'm not going to dignify her doubts with a response. Nope. Not me. I am perfectly justified in my statements about our proximity to Manchester during our stay at the Castle in the Clouds. We will be nowhere near the president and his family.

Except for the fact that we have to drive through Manchester to get to the White Mountains.

"Joshua?"

Oh, shit.

"Yes?" Maybe if I play innocent, she won't kill me.

"Why are we headed straight for Manchester?"

I glance over at her with a look of guileless surprise. "Are we?"

"Joshua." Uh-oh. There's that deadly preamble-to-a-tongue-lashing look. Not that I don't enjoy the occasional tongue-lashing, mind you, but they usually lead rather directly into, well, other recreational pursuits and I'd like to make it to the hotel tonight.

"Okay, so we have to drive through Manchester--"

"Joshua!" she shrieks. "Are you crazy?"

"Not last time I checked."

"Let me get this straight: While on our secret holiday trip -- a trip, I may remind you, that is so hush-hush that you parked your damn car at the airport and took a $40 cab ride back to my place after making me purchase a $350 plane ticket I'm not going to use, all in order to support the illusion of innocence -- while on our secret trip, we're tooling through Manchester?"

"Well, when you say it like that--"

"Why don't we just pop in and say hello?" she suggests sarcastically. "I think Leo's up here until Christmas Eve -- we can kill two birds with one stone."

"Donna, will you relax? It's going to be fine. Manchester can't be more than, what, two square miles or something? We'll be past it in no time."

"Joshua! What if the president is out for a -- What day is it?"

"Friday," I supply.

She continues without even a pause. "A Friday morning drive and he sees us?"

"First of all, it's afternoon, not morning. And second, who goes on Friday morning drives anyway?"

She gives me a blistering look. "You are missing the point."

"Donna," I say, "we're not having sex on the steps of the state building--"

"The state building is actually in Concord. You know, the capitol of New Hampshire? Concord also holds the distinction of being a city in which the leader of the free world is not currently vacationing."

"Donna, we're on the interstate," I point out. "Who takes leisurely drives on the interstate?"

"Josh, you know how the president feels about driving fast."

"Okay, but don't you think we'd notice the presidential motorcade in time to, you know, duck and cover?"

She glares at me for a moment. "Still," she says finally. "What if he snuck out in the SUV?"

"Trust me when I tell you that SUV is not hard to spot."

"Why?"

"It's got 'Bartlet for America' stickers all over the back, plus personalized plates."

Donna isn't irritated anymore. Now she's curious. "The president has personalized plates?"

"Yup," I smirk.

She gives me an expectant look. "Josh!"

"What?"

"What do they say?"

"'DEM4PRES.'"

Donna stares at me, slackjawed. "Please tell me you're kidding."

I shake my head gleefully. "Nope. The president is a dork."

"I knew that," she says. "But personalized plates?"

"They were a present from Abbey."

Donna gives me a pained look. "I thought Abbey had better taste."

"She does," I answer with a stupid grin. "She had to sit through one too many of his lectures on license plates -- how the prisoners make them, how pompous it is to have personalized plates, what kind of metal they're made out of; typical Jed Bartlet fare. She told me she stood in line at the DMV for forty-five minutes."

Donna nods. "So the president is too scared of her to take them off his car?"

"Yup."

She thinks about it for a moment, then declares, "The First Lady rocks."  
***

"I married a walking tour book," Josh mutters.

We're ten miles from Castle in the Clouds. Josh is in full sarcasm mode because I've been educating him since we got out of Manchester -- Manchester, for the love of all that is holy! -- about our destination.

"History is even more fun than philately, Josh."

"I wish you would stop using that word. At least until we're safely checked in. It doesn't aid my defensive driving skills."

"Do you want to know about this place or not?"

"I know about this place. I told you about this place."

"Did you know that it took three years to build? From 1913 to 1916."

"I don't care when it was built, as long as our room is ready when we get there."

"And I bet you have no idea how many people it took to build the place."

"Sadly, I think I'm about to find out."

"One thousand. And I have to wonder, you know, just how well they were paid. I mean, if you look at what the average factory worker or coal miner made during that same time period--"

"I'm spending the holidays with my wife's evil twin -- Norma Rae Moss-Lyman."

"You're supposed to have a social conscience, Josh. You should care about these things."

"I'd care if these were one thousand American workers making a substandard wage today. But I can't do anything to improve the lot of workers in 1916. Do I look like that guy from Quantum Leap?"

"Sam Beckett. No, you don't. He was totally hot."

"Thank you so much."

"And he couldn't have done anything either. He could only leap within his own lifetime."

"Whatever that means."

"His wife was named Donna too. Only he had amnesia, so he didn't remember that he was married."

"I envy him."

I give Josh my disapproving face and change the subject. "It took so long to build the place because the stones were handcrafted by Italian stonemasons, and they could only do three a day."

"Italian stonemasons?"

"Yes."

"Italian as in Italian-American or Italian as in send it to Italy and back?"

"Does it matter?"

"Just wondering if these were potential voters we're talking about."

"It was 1916, Josh. I doubt any of them would still be around to vote for Bartlet."

"Just asking."

"The stones are shaped primarily as pentagons."

"Pentagons?"

"Yes."

"Did you pack the briefing book on the defense spending bill?"

"No, Joshua, I forgot to bring any work along on our second attempt at a honeymoon."

"Attempt? What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"Because I'd been shot. I'd been in surgery mere weeks before."

"I remember."

"And I still got the job done, dammit!"

"The job?"

"Not the best choice of words?"

"You are referring to our wedding night -- the consummation of our marriage -- the end of the banter-and-deny cycle -- as the job? Do you ever think before you open that mouth?"

"I was making a point."

"Which was...?"

"That under less than ideal circumstances--" He looks at my face and backtracks. "That although I was not at my best physically, you didn't do all the work."

"Well, that's true."

"And you didn't exactly complain. Quite the opposite, as I recall."

"I have never claimed otherwise."

"Just as long as we're clear on that," he says.

"We're clear." We are also grinning. "Now do you want to hear about the interior of the building?"

"I'm beginning to understand why the First Lady was willing to spend forty-five minutes standing in line at the DMV."  
***

For once, my internal alarm clock works. I wake up around eight and slip out of bed. I call room service from the living room, then dig out the first of eight presents wrapped in plain silver foil. I tied the bows myself, so they're a bit uneven; but I used real ribbon, not that cheap curling ribbon.

I take the small package into the bedroom and bounce onto the bed. Donna groans a bit and stretches. Much to my delight, the sheets slide down to reveal a lot of alabaster skin.

I grin at her and place the gift about two inches from her nose so that when she opens her eyes, they cross comically.

"Happy Chanukah, Donnatella."

She smiles up at me, the levers herself upright. "Happy Chanukah, Joshua." She leans over and kisses me soundly. When she pulls back, she taps the gift. "You already gave me a present."

"That was a Christmas present," I explain. "This is a Chanukah present."

I swear she is glowing as she tugs at the ribbon. She makes short work of the wrapping, then holds the ornament up with a look of confusion. "You gave me an ass?"

"It's a donkey, Donna."

"Okay. You gave me a donkey?"

I point at the small figure. "It's holding a flag."

"Fine. You gave me a donkey holding a flag?"

"Donna," I roll my eyes, exasperated. "What's the symbol of the Democratic Party?"

Her eyes light up. "Oh, Josh! You gave me a Democratic ornament? That is so sweet."

She all but tackles me and we are about halfway to blowing off our plans for the morning -- no pun intended -- when room service arrives.

"Dammit," Donna mumbles into my ribcage.

I realize belatedly that the Democratic donkey's flag is poking rather insistently into my thigh. "Timeout," I suggest.

Donna untangles herself from my body and the sheets. "Fine," she sighs dramatically. "If you prefer food..." She reaches for a robe.

I bolt from the bed and snatch it away. "No," I say, slipping it on. "No clothes for you."

Donna fights a smile. "Why not?"

"Because I ordered pancakes. With extra syrup. If you spill any, I plan to lick it off. And I don't much care for cotton-poly blends."  
***

"I like being married."

Josh looks at me, his expression somewhere between puzzled and amused. "You're just now figuring that out?"

"It's not as though we get to spend much time acting married," I point out.

"Oh, I don't know. I think we spend a considerable amount of time acting married, thank you very much."

"I mean, acting like regular married people. The kind who live together and all that."

Amused Josh is immediately replaced by Guilty Josh, the one who decides that everything from our living arrangements to the weather is somehow his fault. This Josh alternately breaks my heart and gets on my last nerve. "I'm sorry," he says.

"Honestly, Josh, get a clue. If I didn't completely agree with the Moss-Lyman Strategy--" I pause automatically, but he doesn't correct me. Dear God, this is serious. "If I didn't think it was best to go public in the spring, I'd march into Leo's office and to hell with the consequences."

"Yes, you would," Josh admits.

"So stop beating yourself up over it. This tendency to blame yourself for everything is not your most attractive quality."

"I love when you do the supportive wife thing."

"I'm just saying it's the other side of that enormous ego of yours. You take credit for everything that goes right, but then you have to blame yourself for everything that goes wrong. You're not half as important as you think you are."

He just shakes his head. I think Amused Josh is on his way back.

"There are women who would gladly have married me and said nice things to me."

"Yes, there are doormats in this world. Lucky for you I married you instead."

"Yes," he says, pulling me into his arms. "Very lucky for me."  
***

I have The Chanukah Song stuck in my head. I am pleasantly buzzing -- Donna let me have a beer with lunch -- and I can't stop singing that song. Specifically, the line "Drink your gin and tonic-ah, smoke your marijuan-icah." Makes me giggle.

"Josh," Donna glares at me. "Would you please stop singing that song!"

Chastened, I grab her hand as we wander down Mass Ave toward Harvard Square. It's cold out, but the air is crisp. "I miss Harvard sometimes."

Donna glances around. "It's very pretty. Lots of brick."

I give her an odd look, then point down a side street. "I used to live down that way about three blocks. Cold walk in the winter."

She snuggles deeper into her jacket. "I've noticed."

"Oh, come on," I grin at her. "The Dolphin has amazing seafood."

"Yes," she agrees. "But the subway tunnels aren't heated, and I'm wearing a dress."

"I noticed," I leer at her. "But I did tell you to save the dress for dinner."

We reach the subway entrance and clomp down the stairs. While we're waiting for the train back to Boston proper, I pull a small silver present from my pocket. I was going to give it to her when we got back to the hotel, but what the hell. I'm an impatient man, and now seems as good a time as any.

Donna's brow furrows.

"It's tomorrow's gift," I explain. "But you should open it now."

She still looks doubtful, but she complies. It's a struggle with her gloves on, so she peels them off and hands them to me. I get that familiar surge of incredulity and bliss when her ring sparkles up at me. I rub the fingers of my left hand together to feel my own wedding band.

Donna extracts the small velvet box and gives me a questioning look.

I grin at her. "You'd better hurry. I think I hear the train."

Donna opens the box and stares at the diamond earrings in shock. "Joshua," she whispers, her fingers tracing the gems. I tried to find a cut and setting that would match her ring. Looks like I did a pretty damn good job.

Donna snaps the box shut and launches herself at me. Her arms snake around my neck, and she pulls my face to hers.

Kissing Donnatella still has the power to leave me completely senseless. My arms encircle her waist and crush her against me. When we finally surface, the platform is empty, save us.

We missed the train.

"Oops," I smirk. "Guess we have to wait for the next one."

Donna raises one eyebrow. "How will we pass the time?"  
***

People are staring at us.

We have emerged from our room to have dinner at a nice restaurant, and people are staring at us.

We made reservations as "Moss, party of two" because, yes, Josh is that paranoid. But we decided to venture out into public for dinner and actual dancing, and now people are staring at us.

Some of them are also pointing and whispering.

This is so not good.

"Told you I looked hot in this dress," I say. Josh doesn't laugh, and I can't say I blame him.

Please let people be staring because I look hot in this dress.

The waiter addresses Josh as "Mr. Lyman." The jig is up.

This happens in DC occasionally. Not the whispering. The being recognized. DC is a company town, and Josh is a high-ranking executive in the company. It's not a problem if I'm with him there because, hey, I'm his faithful assistant. His sidekick. Tonto with a steno pad. As long as there's no kissing or hand holding in DC, no one thinks twice about my joining Josh for a working dinner.

This isn't DC. This is hundreds of miles away. This dress is too low-cut to hide a fountain pen, much less a steno pad.

We are so screwed.

"We should leave," Josh says.

"We'll look guilty."

"We are guilty. And how does anyone know my name here?"

"You were all over the news," I suggest.

"That was months ago."

Damn, he looks good tonight. I got him into a tux, which is an excellent look for him, no matter how much he hates it. We were going dancing. Now I'll be lucky if he doesn't bolt halfway through dinner.

"As much as I hate to, you know, feed your ego, you are not an easy man to forget," I point out.

"Yeah, but this is -- the whole room's looking at us. One or two political junkies, that I could buy. But this is ridiculous."

The question of why everyone is staring at us is solved a few minutes later when someone comes up to our table carrying a magazine she wants Josh to autograph. It's the new Time magazine, and my husband is on the cover.

I am secretly married to the Man of the Year.

So much for keeping a low profile.  
THE END  
01.08.01


End file.
